


Innocence

by wishingwellwriting



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Not AU technically but it's set before she goes crazy and starts murdering people, They eat soup, baby cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:28:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24601606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishingwellwriting/pseuds/wishingwellwriting
Summary: Set six months after Cat Adams 18th birthday, she meets the one and only Spencer Reid. Can he save her? Or is it too late?
Relationships: Catherine "Cat" Adams/Spencer Reid
Comments: 3
Kudos: 74





	Innocence

Spencer was late. 

The bus was behind schedule, and he could feel his nervous breath fogging up his glasses. He fidgeted with his bag strap slung over his shoulder, both curious and nervous about what Gideon was going to say about him being late. He was young, and they were already doubting him because of it. He knew that. He couldn’t let everyone down. His bus finally pulls around the corner, and he’s bounding up the stairs as soon as the doors open. His eyes scan the bus and he picks a seat towards the back, where it’s emptier and quieter. His only companion is a girl laying on the seat across the aisle from him, he’d guess 18 or 19, curled up and eyes closed, though her breathing tells him she’s not asleep. She doesn’t look like she’s showered in weeks, her clothes are crumpled and wrinkled, and she’s cuddled around her bag like it’s the only thing shielding her from the world. She flinches when the bus hits a bump in the road.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring at her until the girl pipes up, “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” Her words are joking, but Spencer could tell she was struggling. He could tell she was terrified. 

“I-I don’t have a camera on me. I’m sorry.” He says quietly, clutching his bag a little closer in defense. 

She opens her eyes and glances at him suspiciously. “Why are you staring?” 

“You look...tired.” He admits, shame and worry crawling into his voice. 

“I know I look like shit, you try looking good when you have nowhere to go.” She snaps at him, but her words hold more fear than anger. He realizes her fear is because of him, she is physically and verbally cowering from him, and this is new to him. He was lanky and awkward, he didn’t think of himself as particularly intimidating. Still, he shifts back in his seat, putting more distance between them. She relaxes, now sitting up and crossing her legs at her ankles.

“Are you...Do you need someplace to stay?” He offers, and he’s not sure why, but something about her makes him feel almost protective. 

She bristles, drawing her arms in across her stomach. “I don’t even know your name. How do I know you’re not a serial killer?” He laughs softly at that, and so does she. Looking at him, they both know he’d be incapable of such an act.

“My name is Spencer Reid.” He offers, hoping she’ll offer hers in return. 

“Cat.” She’s still closed off, only giving up what she has to.

“Why are you sleeping here?” He questions, a tentative question that Cat could easily avoid if she wanted to. 

She looks ashamed, eyes cast downward, and mutters, “I didn’t have much of a choice. Former foster kid.” He knows the statistics. He knows that almost half of all foster kids become homeless after 18 months. He knows the signs, too. Her hair slicked back under a tourist ballcap and clothes that look too well worn. He knows he’ll feel responsible if in a month, it’s her face in his case files. 

“Let me help you.” He knows his stop to get off and get on a train to Quantico is coming soon, but he’ll take a sick day if he can save her, but she recoils from his outstretched hand. “Please, I’m not going to hurt you. We can catch the other bus and go back to my apartment, you can shower and sleep.” She seems hesitant and scared, and he softly repeats, “I’m not going to hurt you. Let me help you.” 

She didn’t respond for a while, but finally she takes his hand and nods. She was still quiet, but trusting. He breathes a sigh of relief and texts Gideon, “I need a sick day today. Explain later.”

\-----

When Spencer opens the door to his apartment, she stifles a gasp. Wall to wall is lined with bookshelves, more books stacked in corners, strewn across tables. It’s neat other than that, but even she could tell where his passion lies. She drinks it all in, trying to know him a little bit better, when he clears his throat and closes the door behind her.

“So, uh, my bathroom is down the hall to your left. You can use anything you need in there, and I can give you some of my clothes to wear if you want me to wash yours.” He goes to what she presumes is his bedroom and returns with a soft blue Caltech t-shirt and sweatpants, holding them out to her. She takes them and tries to ignore how warm his hands feel when she brushes against them. They lock eyes for a split second, and she swears she hears his breath catch. 

She retreats to the bathroom without a word, and is greeted with a good look at herself in the mirror. No wonder he thought she looked pathetic. He might just be pitying her, but a warm shower would be nice. She leans in, turning the shower on as hot as she can stand it, and steps into the shower. The water is burning hot against her skin but she didn’t mind, feeling the stress of the last few weeks wash away. Raking his shampoo into her hair, she realizes maybe this isn’t just pity, but she shakes that thought away. His lavender body wash is comforting, it reminds her of old sweaters and quilts, and she feels safe for the first time in a long time. She lets the water run over her skin, imagining it pulling every toxin from her life away, seeing it swirl down the drain. 

She shuts off the water, and wraps the towel around her body. The softness against her skin is more comfort than she’s ever felt. She steals his deodorant and it smells like cinnamon, and staunchly realizes when she leaves this bathroom, she will be covered in someone else. The idea was nice, almost relieving to not be herself anymore, even if it was just for the night. She slips on his clothes, relishing in the feel of them against her, and holds herself close for a moment. 

A knock on the door steals her out of her head, and she calls out a shaky, “Yes?”

“I made soup. Well, I didn’t make it. My friend did. But I heated it up. We can eat it. You can eat it. If you want.” Spencer says, and she’s not sure if the door hushed his voice or if he did it. Either way, she wasn’t in a position to turn down food.

“Okay. I’ll be out in a minute.” The air hung heavy between them, and Cat felt like a child. Petulant, naive, needing to be taken care of. She hears Spencer shuffle away, and she breathes a sigh of relief. She looks down at her hands, realizing she was white-knuckling the sink. She loosens her grip, straightens her spine, and walks out of the door, her dirty clothes in hand. She rounds the corner and he’s sitting at a small dinette, a bowl of steaming soup in front of both chairs. He stands up and takes the clothes from her, disappearing around the corner to where she assumes there’s a washer. She sits down, tentatively grabbing the spoon in front of her. He comes back into view, and joins her at the table.

“My coworker made it. It’s, uh, broccoli cheddar. Not my favorite, but it is good.” He smiles at her.

She takes a singular risk, and smiles back at him. “What is your favorite, then?” Another risk.

He laughs, shaking his head. “You’ll judge me.”

Curious, she offers, “Maybe, but now I have to know.”

“Just...broth. Simple. Effective.” She stares, a little bit open mouthed, until she shocks herself by giggling. 

“Broth?” She asks incredulously.

“I  _ knew  _ that you would make fun of me!” They both shake their head and smile, and air shifts. Something changed, and Cat couldn’t put her finger on it.

Spencer takes the moment to say, “Tell me about yourself.” and she balks, not sure if she’s ready to open herself up any further than she already has. 

“Why don’t you start? I know nothing about you, other than that you use lavender scented body wash.” She carries a teasing air, trying to keep it light so that his eyes don’t see even further into her. 

“I don’t know anything about you, either.” He adds, mimicking her tone of voice, matching her pace.

“Touche. So how about a game? 20 questions. I ask one, you ask one. Until we’re done.” She’s comfortable with that, a game. It wouldn’t be serious if it’s a game, and if it’s not serious, it’s not real.

He nods, seemingly also satisfied with that. “Okay, then I’ll start. How old are you?” 

She returns coolly, “I turned eighteen about six months ago. How old are you?” 

“Twenty-three. Not that much older than you. Do you work?”

“Yeah, at a little diner off Third. Do you work? I assume you’d have to, to afford a place like this.”

He looks sheepishly at the floor, and mumbles something Cat can’t quite catch.

“What was that?” She asks teasingly.

“I work in the FBI? In the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” He fidgets underneath the table and she’s taken aback. She tried not to react to this new layer of intimidation, because she could tell that this was precisely why he didn’t want to say.

“Aren’t you a little...young to be working in the FBI?” Her uncomfortableness seeps through her words, and he almost feels stung. “And is that why you brought me here? To _ save _ me?” She doesn’t need to be saved. She’s survived six months on her own. Six months without any man coming in to be her hero.

“No. I wanted to help you, I didn’t think you needed saving.” He’s honest with her, at least then, and she can tell. “Are you in school?”

She shakes her head sadly. “No, someone from the system like me? We don’t go to college, Spencer. How about you? I assume a big FBI guy like yourself has some degree under his belt.”

“I...graduated.” He looks embarrassed, and he continues softly, “I have three PhDs and three bachelor’s degrees.”

Her jaw drops, and she doesn’t quite know what to think, so she just says, “How?”

“How? I graduated high school at fifteen. I have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory.”

“Wow, so a genius picked me up on the bus.” She’s amazed, and she feels a little bit insecure. She had barely managed to graduate high school on time. It wasn’t that she wasn’t smart, she was. But life had too many distractions to let her focus on school. 

He blushes, and all he says is a mumbled, “Not a genius.” He picks up his now empty bowl and gestures at hers. “Are you done?” She nods, pushing the bowl towards him. 

“So what’s your next question, Spencer?” She asks, standing up and making her way to the big leather couch behind them. After all, that’s what he offered on the bus. 

He follows behind her, thinking loud enough that Cat swears she can hear the gears turning. “Are you from here? DC, I mean.” She thinks about lying, but she decides on the truth. After all, he does work for the FBI.

“I grew up in Alexandria, but when I turned 18, I only had enough saved up to get here.” She sits, folding her legs underneath her and clutching one of the throw pillows to her chest. He follows suit and chooses to sit on the middle seat of the couch, perching just close enough to her to make her feel safe. The feeling of safety he gave her was unfamiliar, she had never felt that from a man before. Part of her continued to tell her that she shouldn’t trust him, but the rest of her felt like she had no choice. She let her guard down. “Are you from DC? Or did you move here for college?”

“I’m from Las Vegas, actually. I went to CalTech.” She raises her eyebrows, surprised. He catches the look and just says, “What?”

She shrugs “You just don’t seem like a Vegas man, I guess.” She shuffles closer to him, seeking the warmth radiating off of him. He doesn’t move. “My turn? What’s your favorite book?” 

He furrows his brows, thinking, not noticing when she shifts closer. “That’s the first hard question. I think…I think The Illustrated Man.”

“Ray Bradbury.” She says, pleasantly surprised. “Ask me something else.” Cat feels herself growing tired, despite it being near to lunch time, her eyes drooping and becoming hard to keep open.

“What’s your full name?” He asks, sounding genuinely curious. She decides to take another risk, and she lays her head on his shoulder, eyes drifting closed. 

“Catherine Adams. But don’t you dare call me Catherine.” She smiles against him, and feels him relax. He chuckles, tentatively bringing a hand to her side. 

“I won’t."


End file.
